


Tale of the Wixen Matchmaker

by LadyVaneth



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Magic, Courtship, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Derogatory Language, Fairy Tale Elements, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Multi, Poison, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVaneth/pseuds/LadyVaneth
Summary: Once upon a time – as all tales tended to begin – lived at the end of the road of a village a hermit with near magical predilection. Strange as it may be that no one had already reported the wix to the authorities in charge, the truth of the matter however was that this particular wix was an essential part of the village. And, as all tales tend to begin, far, far away in time…
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 4





	Tale of the Wixen Matchmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Music: "I'd Rather Burn" by Blackbriar, and everything by them, really.

**Bouquet and tea**

A young man, fresh out of teenage-hood, was walking the way to the isolated house down the main road of the village. He was to receive advice from the hermit living there. Hermit they might be, nonetheless it was said that the person living down there gave good advice as well as good remedies.

His father had always been suspicious about that last part but his mother just had to touch the flower of the day in the vase to calm him down and admit – reluctantly, mind you – that the hermit was good at their job, indeed. 

A crouched slender figure tending to a blooming flower bed greeted him as he arrived. Gathering some courage, he hailed the crouching figure. “Beg your pardon, gardener,” he began hesitantly, “but I came here in need of advice – mother recommanded you…” He trailed, not knowing how to continue.

The gardener straightened up and eyeing him briefly, finishing what they were doing to the flowers. The strange person then stood up, slowly, their eyes never leaving him, as if to weight his intentions, or his soul. “Very well. What troubles you then, son of the woodcutter’s wife?”

It was a mighty strange greeting, but his mother had warned him of the strangeness of the hermit. The voice too was quite odd, neither feminine nor masculine, not grave and deep or strident and high – no, the hermit spoke softly, with few inflections. It was the strangely comforting tone that, more than anything, gave him strength to continue.

“Well, there is this maiden living not far from the shop, and I was hoping to court her only I do not know how to go about it…” The young man ran out of courage and deflated.

Why his parents could not have helped him with this, he wondered, not understanding. It certainly would have been less shameful for him if they were the one to give him advice instead of some stranger he did not know.

The hermit hummed then tilted their head to the right as would a feline, still watching him. After a few minutes during which he could not help but fidget nervously, the gardener nodded to themselves. “I will help. What is the name of the maiden in question?” He told them the name. “Come back tomorrow and I will have what you need.” With those words, the strange villager turned back to their flowers in a clearly dismissive manner.

He left without another word, too stunned to say his thanks. Back at home, his parents had a knowing gleam in their eyes. His mother patted his arm and his father just said “You’ll see.”

The next day, when he went back to the hermit, they gave him a bouquet of bloomed flowers. “Give her one each day of the month. If, at the end of the month, there is nothing between you and your maiden then you have to set your eyes elsewhere.”

Those were curious instructions, nonetheless, all along the following month, he gave one flower from the bouquet to the girl that had his heart hostage. Curiouser still, the flowers still in the bouquet never seemed to wilt. The month passed by quickly. By the tenth day, they were tentatively speaking. By the twentieth, conversation was flowing and several reported having seen the young man kissing the woman’s left hand. By the thirtieth, there was talk about their engagement in all of the village.

They got married during the spring equinox under blooming trees.

Years later, the hermit down the main road had not aged a day and another young man sought advice from them. As per the established tradition, the strange gardener asked him to come back the next day. When he came back, he was given tea leaves. It was a small village, and no men had ever been given leaves instead of flowers. Stranger still were the instructions: the tea leaves were not for the maiden, but for him to drink once a day for the next month. As they had yet to be wrong, the young man took the leaves and the instructions, and left the hermit’s house. A month later, he was on his death bed, sick and incurable, and the woman he wished to marry had left the village.

Of course, this did not go well with the father of the young man. As men were wont to do when they could not explain something, they began to fear it, growing angry at feeling fear, before finally wanting to end the problem where they think it began. His son’s sickness began with the tea leaves the strange hermit gave him, thus the hermit killed his son.

The father, indeed furious, was more than ready to lynch the witch that poisoned his son. He faced few oppositions from his friends however no women came to his side of things. Not even his wife, which made him despair. Aghast by his wife negative response, he demanded, shouted, why they should allow that witch to live still when she took the lives of the innocent without facing consequences, when, it appeared, that she could kill whoever she wanted.

“He was not innocent!” the sister of the woman his son had wanted to court exclaimed. She repeated softly “he was not innocent” and it was all they could pry from her.

*

**Time and magic**

Years passed by again, and still, the strange gardener had not aged one bit. Men were wary but still sought advice and flowers from the hermit. During those last decades, many a couple got married, few young adults died (tea leaves for the men, causes still unknown for the women), some had even left the village.

The first man known to have asked advice from the strange hermit down the main road – and to have begun the tradition – was old, bend by time and hard-work. His parents were long dead, taking with them any and all information they could have had on the lonely gardener. His wife herself, he had buried just the week past. His children were all grown up, his eldest one of those that left, his second and his last happily married, giving him grandchildren. He knew his time was almost up, however, one riddle never left his mind and it was high time he sought out answers.

When he arrived at the hermit’s house, he was surprised. Intellectually, he had known they had not aged since he was a boy just shy of adulthood. To see it with his own eyes was quite another thing. Would the gardener ever be happy, seeing all the villagers grow and then die, generation after generation – he wondered.

“Can I help you?” asked the timeless matchmaker. He said nothing, and they smiled knowingly. “Ah, no, of course. Your time has passed, you are here for answers.” The gardener stared at him, analysing his expressionless face, almost a mirror image of what happened years ago, when he was still shy and unsure of his wants. The hermit opened their door. “Well? Come in.”

The inside of the house was bathed in sunlight and charged with potted plants, flowers in vases, and knick-knacks of all sorts. A set of beautifully painted cards was placed next to a strange crystal ball, and no wood was burning in the chimney even though the cold was slowly setting in the village. 

“You are a witch,” he said in a matter of fact way. With such a décor, no one could blame him to come to this conclusion.

“No, I am of wixen blood but I am no witch. Witch is for herbalist, potionnist, and, most of all, women.”

“A sorcerer then,” he tried again. The hermit smiled with amusement and shook their head.

“No such grandiose magical ability, I am afraid.” He opened his mouth but was quickly interrupted. “There was wix magic in the water of my bearer and there was immortality in my sire line. I am the result, a genderless, timeless wix. I know my remedies and my poisons, I see through crystal and fire, I learn with cards and hands. No soul I see has any secret and no lies can hide reality from me.”

“Is it how you set us all with the woman we like? With magic tricks and fake love?” The wix scoffed.

“Of course not! I have morals and decency.”

“Then, how? All of the men that came to you those last decades ended up marrying their sweetheart. They all came to you for advice. Is there something in the flowers?”

The magical hermit laughed genuinely.

“Oh no! When I ask the men to come back the next day, it is because I need time to ask the maiden if she would like to be courted by you, and if yes, then I ask what flower she would like the young man to deliver for a month. The only thing I put on the flower, is a blessing stopping it from wilting that ends when the maiden took the flower. The girls talk, of course, and I am asking. They talk willingly because I am the strange if helpful gardener with beautiful flowers at the end of the road.”

“But, and the ones that died? Or the ones that left the village?” pushed the old man. He could still remember with clarity the first death that happened. The wixen gardener’s face took a grim turn, their eyes, cold and their lips, pinched.

“The ones that died were the ones that had no innocent nor pure intentions, their soul already tainted and filthy with crimes against free willed creatures. Those broken creatures, I made them left the village to heal as I assured them I would take care of the monster of their nightmares. Several berries and leaves are useful that way.” The man shivered at the freezing tone. “As to the ones that left… let’s say that your son is happier outside the village than he could have ever been, had he stayed – as are all those that left.”

That answer left the old man confused. “Was it the lack of opportunity in the village? Is that why he left with the fraternal twins and their neighbour girl?”

The hermit hide a smirk.

“One could say that, indeed.” The man let escape a morose “oh.” The hermit took his hands in theirs, they could not let the man leave with sadness in his heart. “It is not your fault, you have to know that. He loves you, and is very happy where he is.” The old man looked at them in the eyes and they wished him to understand that they meant their words. “Truly.” A smile appeared on his face and the gardener nodded to themselves for a job well done.

Before he left, the man asked a last question, purely out of curiosity. “What were your parents, then?” 

The immortal wix had a big fond smile at the question.

“My mother was a beautiful maid for Queen Titania and my father is a member of the Pale Horse clan.”

And he could see it now. Whether a glamour fell down for an instant, or his eyes and sunlight tricked him – it did not matter. For the wix’s ears were sharp under the glossy hairs, their skin tone, fair and without spot, their eyes gleaming a vibrant colour he could hardly name, and they exuded a supernatural grace. 

He then left the strange hermit house, satisfied with the answer he got. He died two nights later, content.

*

**Tale**

Once upon a time lived at the end of the road of a village a hermit with near magical predilection. Strange as it may be that no one had already reported the wix to the authorities in charge, the truth of the matter however was that this particular wix was an essential part of the village.

One could go to them and ask for any advice and they would give it freely. If it was for love, they would even help, with blooming flowers to give to the one your heart had chosen. If your love was forbidden by common decency, they helped by giving you safe passage to town or, at least, out of the village. If you married your beloved at the next spring equinox, the trees would be blooming.

However, another, darker rumour was circling around the village. That if one was an abuser, sooner rather than later, one might find themselves dead by either tea leaves or mysteriously in the dead of the night.

Once upon a time, far, far away in time, the immortal child of a Seelie Fae and of a Necromancer was playing Cupid in a small, isolated village.

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> The wix's mother was "a beautiful maid for Queen Titania" meaning she was a Fae. In fairy myths, Queen Titania is the ruler of the Summer/Seelie Court of the Fae folks along with King Oberon, opposing the Winter/Unseelie Court ruled by Queen Mab. Stereotypically, the Seelie Fae are supposed to be the "good" ones whereas the Unseelie are the "evil" ones.
> 
> The father of the wix is "a member of the Pale Horse clan," by which I meant to say that he is either a Reaper or a Necromancer, as the Pale Horse is a reference to the biblical Apocalypse: "I looked, and behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him" - Revelation 6;7-8.
> 
> All in all, the wix is an immortal being, with minor control over nature, some seer abilities (mainly with tarot, crystal ball, pyromancy, palmistry) and the ability to see souls. That's the reason they can see through lies as well as if one is truthful and innocent of crimes.
> 
> In fae courts, names have powers which is one of the reasons there is no name in this story as well as, I think, why the women talked to the wix - soft persuasion. If you thank a fae, you are giving them power over you - never thank a fae. However, one must always be polite to a fae for they are easily offended. If all those villagers thank the wix, in no time the village in its entirety will be in debt with the wix, knowingly or not.
> 
> I think that's all for complementary information...
> 
> Can you guess why some of the young people left the village, amongst them, the eldest son of the old man? 
> 
> Thanks for reading 'til there, hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
